The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,185
of his seat, ascending fast. Then the hot, stinking weight of Slag landed on his shoulders. The claws sank in, bringing exquisite and unbearable torture. Harkins abandoned the flight stick, beating at himself, consumed by panic.
'Harkins!'
He couldn't hear. The cat was howling. He twisted and contorted himself, trying to get the evil creature off him. The claws detached from his shoulder, scrabbled at his back, slashed his scalp. He couldn't get a hold of his attacker. Caught between two dangers, he lunged for the flight stick instead, which was jolting about of its own accord. His fingers grasped at it and slid away. His hands went back to Slag, who was launching a fresh attack on the nape of his neck, caterwauling at the top of his lungs. The hard, cold streets of Sakkan rushed up towards him.
You're going to die!
Then something clicked in among the panic and confusion. The cat's howling. Harkins had never known that sound to come from Slag before, but he knew an old friend when he heard it. That was the sound of fear.
Slag was scared. Out of his mind. He hadn't been hiding under the seat waiting to pounce. He'd been cowering, terrified of the sky and the noise of the plane and everything around him.
And with that knowledge came fury. He wouldn't go out like this! Not after everything he'd lived through. Dogfights, crashes, dozens of near misses. The whole point of being a coward was not to get killed. But Slag didn't seem to get that. He was just a dumb animal, too scared to know what was good for him.
More scared than Harkins, in fact.
Harkins reached over his head, and found a confident grip on the scruff of Slag's neck. He hauled the cat off him, ignoring the blaze of pain as the claws came free. He dangled the struggling animal in front of his face.
'Bad kitty!' he screamed, and punched the cat as hard as he could in the face. Then he slung his limp and cross-eyed adversary over his shoulder, into the back of the cockpit, and grabbed hold of the flight stick.
The Firecrow was speeding towards the ground, buffeted by the winds, corkscrewing crazily. He gritted his teeth and attempted to counter the roll. His head felt like it was going to burst. The cat was forgotten. There was only him and the Firecrow.
But there was no contest of wills here. Here, even if nowhere else, Harkins was the master.
The craft responded. The spin slowed and stopped. Harkins found the horizon above him. Now he was stable. He stamped on the air brakes and wrenched back on the stick.
'Harkins! Pull up, you stupid bugger! You're going down!' Pinn yelled in his ear.
'I know!' Harkins yelled back. 'Don't you think I know?'
The Firecrow began pulling up. He was still braking hard, but not hard enough. He thumped the valve to flood the tanks with aerium, lightening the craft so the brakes would work better. He was close enough to see the people running in the streets below, and the Manes chasing after them.
'Come on! Come on!' he yelled at his craft. The nose was coming up level . . . slowly . . . slowly . . . too slowly . . .
'Come on!'
The Firecrow screamed down the length of one of Sakkan's main streets, its underbelly scraping the ground with the slightest of touches, sending a fountain of sparks out behind it. Then it was up, up, up, soaring over the rooftops and back into the blessed sky.
Harkins closed his eyes and breathed out.
'Harkins?' It was Pinn. 'You okay?'
'I'm okay,' he said quietly. His mind had gone blank, so he said the only thing he could think of. 'I just punched out the cat.'
There was a long pause from the other pilot. 'You did what?'
Thirty-Nine
'This Might Very Possibly Be A Stupid Idea' — No Turning Back —
The Biggest Chicken Of Them All — A Private Message
The Ketty Jay rocked and trembled, pushed by the concussive forces of the artillery exploding all around them. Frey's shoulders were hunched, as if by making himself smaller he could somehow shrink the Ketty Jay and present a harder target. His gaze was fixed on the stormy vortex ahead of them, a vast, flashing swirl of heaving cloud. Shells flitted across his path to smash into the flanks of Navy frigates that loomed on his port side. Windblades darted past them, with squads of Blackhawks in pursuit.